I roll up the sleeves of my Danceworx Officer Board shirt on the crisp morning and look at the crowd developing on the steps of Upper Sproul Plaza, thinking of all the homework that I still won’t be able to work on for another five hours.

The haze over Oakland, California one week after November 8th, 2016, wasn’t something you saw: it was something you felt. The air seemed perfectly clear at first glance on that crisp, windy morning. But underneath the clear sky, it was a little hard to breathe. In a county where only 14.5% of voters chose Trump as their President, the truth stung and was nearly impossible to swallow. There was still a sense of despair, of recovery, of mourning.

I resisted rolling my eyes, as Michelle and I were not close and I wanted her to think I wasn’t an asshole. Instead, I just responded in a single breath: “Two seasons a year for 15 years.” I did not avert my eyes from the TV. I did not say anything more. I wanted her to watch. I wanted someone else to understand — someone other than my father, whose perpetually muted excitement over text message didn’t satisfy my need to gab excitedly about this show immediately, vigorously, constantly. I needed someone outside of Reddit to get why Survivor was the greatest reality competition show in the history of always and forever.

A day and a half after a Tuesday night that rocked the campus community to its core, a weight still hung in the air. The energy had been sucked out of the air, and those who were not too busy or defeated to join in the protests walked around in hordes of somber zombies. Everyone was I asked was “OK” or “alright.” No one was good.

In a place as large and politically diverse as the United States, it’s easy to feel alienated from other areas of the country, especially in a notoriously liberal bubble like Berkeley. But the outcomes and attitudes around the political process have a direct effect on us as well. This election season has forced me and many others to reexamine the way we look at patriotism in the United States.

I didn’t expect my last day of classes to end sitting on the outside of a circle of seniors as they played “Never Have I Ever” on the steps in front of Doe Library. The evening had been an adventure of sorts — one last chance for my graduating friends to check items off their bucket lists. When a close friend of mine had invited me to join, I couldn’t say anything other than yes.

I also see the baggage she keeps under the bed across from mine that she’s been kind enough to show me after carrying it around alone. It makes her the Michelle that felt out-of-place in her small-town upbringing, the Michelle that is a first generation college student paying her way through school, the Michelle that isn’t sure that the major she has pursued for two years is what she wants to do for the rest of her life. But these things are hidden under her bed, behind her smile and red hair. For any person looking, it’s very easy to see only what they assume is under the surface and never really have any idea of what is remotely close to the truth

“I felt like the least masculine person ever when my teammates in sports back in middle school found out that I was in ‘The Nutcracker,’ ” He tells me through mouthfuls of noodles. “Now, I will, of my own volition, put on heels and leggings and a bra and go onstage, and the more provocative the (choreography) — to a point — the more fun.” His adventurous all-male dance group has given him a new self-confidence in my eyes — but it’s not one he’s always had and certainly not one he’s been led to possess for most of his life.

Less than halfway through a tap dance last semester, everything went wrong. I wasn’t sure if I had adjusted the brace too loose or too tight or if I just hadn’t cleaned the velcro straps well enough. Regardless, as I performed onstage in front of more than 100 people, my brace began to slide down my leg, straps in disarray and the knee hinge resting somewhere around the vicinity of my calf. My performance-ready smile became fixed as I danced through the disaster, praying that nothing would go even more horribly wrong. By the time the dance ended, my brace was bouncing around my ankle. I hobbled awkwardly offstage, cursing at myself, at my knee and at the contraption of metal and plastic that had failed me.

The tight feeling in my chest began on the drive home during one spring break evening. What started so innocently as dinner and “Zootopia” ended with discussions of the future, about already-made summer plans and already-landed internships. Now, as my hands gripped the steering wheel, my heart thumped loudly, straining at the pressure now building inside it. My breathing became shallow and dizzy, building into an undeniable panic attack.

It’s safe to say that by the age of 18, I had gotten used to that heart-sinking feeling that accompanied dressing rooms. It should have been perfect. The beach-chic high-low dress would make my legs look long and flow behind me like a superhero’s cape. On the hanger it had been everything I’d been looking for. Yet when I stared at myself in the mirror, my eyes fixated on the scoop neck, on the bodice that refused to hit my waist as it was supposed to, and on my giant monster rack that was ruining everything.

“Is it alright if we cross here? I’m just right up there.” I point to the large three-story house just down the street, its letters emblazoned on the front. “Oh, you’re in a sorority?” My smile freezes in place a little, as it does every time I hear these words. I look at her as we walk, trying to figure out if her expression indicates genuine curiosity, polite interest or a fixed mask to hide her complete and total judgement.

I leaned forward on the edge of my desk chair, carefully inspecting my handiwork in the small mirror on my desk. With one last delicate swipe of eyeliner, I touched up the bottom tip of my drawn-on nose, straightened the ears atop my head, stood up and headed downstairs to immediate embarrassment.

Nine-year-old me trembled under the bright light, and I gripped my mom’s hand the same as I always did to steel myself for a shot at the doctor’s office. The wax was hot on the corner of my upper lip, but Sharon’s pressure was light, delicate. As she applied the papery strip, I had to work not to curl my lip as I braced for impact. Then… Riiiip! The pain of my hair separating from my face was powerful but brief, like ripping off a particularly nasty Band-Aid. I squeezed my mom’s hand as I winced.

It was love at first bite. My teeth sunk into the tender white meat as spices wafted into my mouth. The crispy skin tasted more like comfort food than anything I had eaten in weeks. I was a changed woman, glowing in my crispy chicken wing bliss. I’ll come back for you, I thought to them as we trudged out with full bellies all too quickly. I’ll always come back for you.

The room smelled like sweat and cheap alcohol, and the floors were sticky with Keystone Light. Across the room from a table littered with empty Solo cups, the two of us swayed our hips next to each other on the half-darkened dance floor to the throbbing bass of a 5-year-old Lady Gaga song. “Want to go back to my place?” His breath was earnest and hot in my ear, and I had to resist the urge to laugh in his face.

I earliest recall hearing these words at age 14, as my high school dance teammate and I stared at ourselves in the mirror in the minutes before practice. I laughed nervously in response, hoping that would hide the insecurity she couldn’t see reflected. She wouldn’t say the same thing if she knew how I felt. When our coach entered the studio to signal the start of practice, I slunk to the back of the room for warm-ups, where at least my faraway reflection looked small.

No longer must your cramming sessions and RRR Week all-nighters be confined to the crowded and eerily silent depths of Main Stacks, where you have to sneak food in and nap on cramped desks. The Student Union doesn’t just allow you to eat — it even sells food! You can basically live there. But what if you actually did? Challenge accepted. If you’re feeling up to the task, just follow this guide from the Clog to see if you can handle five days straight of living inside the Student Union.

Going home for Thanksgiving after three months of school can feel like the most liberating thing in the world. You want to see your family and friends, sleep in your own bed and share all of your stories from your first semester at school. But your perspective on things always changes when you come to UC Berkeley.

If the difference between the hot last week of October and the chilly first week of November is any indicator, then it should be apparent that the concept of seasons in Berkeley is a loose one at best. The weather in the Bay Area can change on a dime, which means students here need to be prepared for anything. It’s easy to joke about having four seasons in a day in a place like Berkeley, but what if that’s actually true? Can you go through one day in Berkeley and experience the moods and temperatures of an entire year?